Chapter Thirty-Three

J oss had retraced the maid's steps. Ultimately, the endeavor offered up precisely what he had anticipated—nothing. She'd purchased some of the old bread, taken it to the park, and fed the swans, per the account of witnesses, and had then headed into the heart of Mayfair. From there, she had simply vanished, not unlike the events that had transpired when Hettie was taken.

Hettie's assertion that she suspected Simon Dagliesh had been involved with the Walpoles was seeming more and more likely by the minute. While she had not been the initial target of the crime, someone, after the fact, had been providing them with information from within the Ernsdale household. Recalling the former footman who had aided the Walpoles in Hettie's abduction, Joss realized that it was highly unlikely that the disgraced servant would have remained in the good graces of any staff member still employed by Arthur Dagliesh. There was no loyalty among thieves or among poorly paid servants scrabbling to keep their positions. Someone had fed the man information. And that pointed directly back to Simon.

Any member of the "quality" would make a poor if not outright hostile witness. They would deny seeing anything. Mostly, he thought, because they chose not to. A serving class girl on the street was beneath their notice unless she picked a pocket or an unscrupulous gentleman wished to get under her skirts. While Annie Foster was a pretty girl, indeed, she wasn't the sort to give any man such ideas or to tolerate any foolishness from one. But there were servants walking the streets of Mayfair and the City of London. Governesses and nannies played with their charges in the parks. Footmen and other maids on their half days walked out together, likely in secret. They'd be protecting themselves by denying any sight of her.

But that didn't mean he was without recourse. There were carts manned by young women selling flowers and other sundry items. Boys who were hawking news sheets and gossip sheets alike. Those were the people to ask. Those were the people who watched and paid attention. They were also the people beholden to no one except themselves. They wouldn't intervene because those from the streets knew to mind their own business or pay the price. But they could be incentivized to reveal what they might have witnessed if the reward was worth the risk.

Strolling up to one of the carts selling posies near the park entrance, he nodded to the girl. "That bunch there," he pointed to a random bouquet. "How much?"

"A ha'penny, sir," the girl replied.

Joss retrieved the coin from his pocket and placed it in her outstretched palm. Then he held up a guinea. "I need information more than I need flowers."

The girl's eyes widened as she looked at the coin. It was likely more than she earned in a month. Hell, it was more than he earned in a month. Luckily, Vincent was footing the bill. "About the girl?"

Joss nodded. There was no point in asking which girl. It went without question.

"A gentleman took her. He weren't dressed like a gent, but he moved like one," she said. "He stood there on the corner, yon... waiting for a good while. Watching for her. A dozen other maids and serving girls walked past him, and he paid them no mind at all. It was her he wanted. Her and her alone."

"Did you see where he took her?"

The girl nodded. "She walked off with him. Not happily, of a certain... but he had his arm around her shoulders, and they headed toward Piccadilly."

Joss leveled an assessing stare at the girl. She was painfully young, but poverty and the cruelty of others had already made her wary. "You know who lives at 124 Curzon Street?"

The girl's eyes widened. "Everyone knows that, sir."

"The girl he took... she works there as a lady's maid. If you talk to the other flower girls or any street vendors that you feel safe asking, to see if anyone else saw them, you bring the information back to me at that house, and you'll get a guinea for your trouble. If we find her safe, you'll get ten guineas. That's more money than you'll see in your lifetime."

"Aye, sir. It is. I'll let you know as soon as I find something."

It wasn't in his nature to simply offer aid without there being some sort of reciprocity in the bargain. But something about her compelled him to do so. "This is hard work for little pay. And eventually it'll not be enough." He didn't name the sort of work she'd have to turn to then. He didn't have to. "If you're interested in doing something more respectable and less dangerous than taking your chances on the street, his lady wife will find you better work."

Joss watched the girl as she closed up her flower cart and began making her way down the street. She stopped at the first corner and spoke to a boy selling apples, then turned left, heading for Piccadilly.

He signaled to Arliss Battson to follow her. When Arliss nodded, Joss headed for home. It wasn't a task he looked forward to, telling Hettie that her maid had been taken by Simon. And there was little doubt that was exactly what had transpired.

*

Annie did exactly as he told her. She wasn't so foolish as to be outwardly defiant of a man who was both desperate and madder than a March hare. But fear had a way of making one forget even the most reasonable of cautions.

"Get in," he demanded.

Annie looked at the heavy barrel. "No. No, I won't do it."

"Then I'll cut your throat and put you in it," Simon retorted, flashing the blade he carried. "You're going in the barrel, Annie Foster. It's up to you whether you do it dead or alive."

Annie wanted to protest, she wanted to shout for help. But the docks were busy. They were teeming with men, most of whom were no more trustworthy than the man before her. If, and that was a very great if, someone deigned to help her, it would take them ages to determine where she was in the rabbit warren of warehouses that lined the quay. That was assuming they'd be able to hear her screams and shouts over the noise of goods being loaded from ship to barge and sailed further upriver into the heart of London.

"How do I know you won't just leave me in there to rot?"

"You do not," he said. "But you'll rot quicker if you're dead going in."

Annie shivered. He was right enough about that, and the very thought of it made her shudder. Her only chance of surviving was to do as he said, hate it though she did.

Taking a steadying breath, she stepped up onto the crate and managed to hoist herself over the lip of the barrel. She was a small woman, slight of frame and very short. Sinking down into the barrel, she could sit on her bottom with her knees drawn up to her chest. There was plenty of room and plenty of air, she assured herself. But as the lid went on the barrel, and she could both hear and feel the hammer strikes as it was sealed tight, she found it harder to breathe. Her heart raced in her chest until it was a wonder it didn't simply give out.

"Be a good girl, Annie. Not a sound until I come back to let you out. I'll ransom you back to your mistress, and once I've been paid, I'll set you free."

No, he wouldn't. She could hear the lie in his voice. He'd kill her either way, money or no. But at least this way, he was leaving her there and heading off to do whatever it was he felt compelled to do. She'd have a chance, while he was composing his ransom demand, to perhaps get herself out of that barrel and away from him.